In Costa, bro! a playa is a beach, not one of your homeys. Actually, I think it has something to do with the fact that they speak Spanish there. I don’t actually speak Spanish, however, just a bastardized version of the language called Spanglish. From this point on, I may break into this language at any el timeo.

Since in el Americano, playas are people, I will have to start my tale by telling a little bit about those involved. My trip to Central America was greatly facilitated by one person. Thor (the "h" is el silento, so say it right,) happened to have a house on the playa in Avellana (the "ll" is silent too) and he, even though he knew me, invited me to come on his already planned el tripo. He definitely did not think I’d actually go, but I sure proved him wrong. When he’s not flitting off to exotic locals, Thor lives in Portland, Ore, where he works for Savier and has all around, way too mucho energyo.

When I arrived at the house, the other members of our entourage — snowboarding superstar Chris Engelsman, his girlfriend Kate and Thor’s grade school buddy Justin — were already there. But I should back up for a minute. Since I don’t really think my trip was interesting enough to just do the chronological play-by-play, I’m going to instead opt to tell a few of the best stories. That way, I don’t have to think too hardo.

I got to the San Jose aeroporto on Monday night after a full day of flying standby. When you plan a trip one-week an advance you would think you could make a pretty good assertion as to when you may or may not be able to leave. I could not do this, so I decided, at the last minute, to take a different flight, hence, I flew standby. It all worked out fine, and when I got to the airport, I eluded the customs officers successfully, and went out to figure out where I would spend el nighto. I got on the first hotel shuttle that pulled up. Marriot…now that’s American. Of course, as the shuttle sped through the pitted San Jose streets to a secluded, exclusive, white-walled, palm-groved, building, I started to regret my decision, but I was on vacation, dammit. 57,000 colones ($170 USD) and about five hours later, I was back on the airport shuttle, trying to figure out how to make it from the mountainous central jungles to el coasto.

Thor had told me there were small planes that flew daily to Tamarindo and I should try to take one of those. I hefted my non-rolling bag around the airport until I found the appropriate airline (located in a shack out back.) Of course, all the flights were sold out. Option 2: I also knew there was a bus that left from one of the hotels at 7:00 a.m. (it was about 5:30) so I found myself their airport shuttle and went and scammed continental breakfast while I waited to see if the bus would show up. At 7, I was informed that the bus doesn’t come unless someone makes a reservation, but amazingly, the lady got through in time, they showed up and soon I was on a $20 "fantasy tour" to the coast.

After hanging around hotels and airports all morning, it was nice to be rolling, even if passing semi trucks on winding mountain roads was a little frightening. Of course, one problem still remained. I was going to Tamarindo, and Thor was in Avellana. Although we had made tentative plans for how he would meet me, he had no idea (and neither did I) when I would show up.

I got off the bus the small, dirty beach town with my bag and no idea what to do. I started to walk towards el Best Western (yeah…American) that was a bunch of meters away to make a phone call. As I began to regret the decision to wear jeans in 80-degree weather, the familiar squeal of a e-brake greeted me as a white Toyota, driven by non other than Thor, skidded in front of me.

They don’t fuck around for ladies night in Tamarindo. Ladies drink free, and good drinks too. We left the middle of the jungle for this momentous occasion and made our way to the bar. There, we found every other tourist in the greater Tamarindo area, and it was actually pretty damn fun. That’s all there is to this story and it totally sucks, but it will be mentioned again, so I figured I’d better throw it in.

In the far reaches of the world, it’s amazing who you’ll run into. While at the beach, Chris and Kate, who resided in Utah for many years, ran into some old friends from the state. They invited them back to the house, and when they showed up, it turned out they were actually from Vermont. And since everyone in Vermont knows each other, I happened to know them. They spoke better Spanglish than anyone else on the trip.

Being the bad Americano that I am, I left the country for Thanksgiving, but we did make an effort to get Turkey for the big day. After the meal, we started playing pool and drinking Imperials (the local 4.0% brew) at the bar. Soon the Vermonters showed up as well as some very entertaining Brits. The Brits were perplexed because the bar that hosted ladies night one day earlier, was now completely dark and quiet.

They joined in on the pool and drinking, although they called the game spots and hollows. As it turned out, people in England don’t call it spots and hollows, but people in Australia do. The Brits explained they figured we were American, so they would talk to us like we were Aussies so we could understand. This was definitely an insult because Brits think Aussies are dumb, but at this point, I’ve gotten over it.

After too many Imperials, it was time to see how many times Chris could pull the e-brake on the way home, while I sat bitch in the backseat (my designated seat for the entire trip) and waited or the radio to play the Spanish version of Shakira’s "Wherever, Whenever."

The daily routine went something like this: The boys would get up at 6 a.m. and go surfing. Kate and I would enjoy our beauty rest until around nine, when they guys would come back from their morning session and get us. Then we’d go eat breakfast, sit on the beach all day and I’d watch everyone else surf. I don’t surf because it requires far too much effort (like having to hike back up after every run). During this time, I would work on my sunburn, which later turned into sun poisoning, until the sun went down and talk to random people on the beach.

Taking the award for most interesting person was Tracy. Although she said she worked in the tourism industry, I am convinced she was stripper. She and her husband were on their annual month long vacation from their difficult lives in Cypress (a tropical island of Greece.) Originally from Canada, Tracy informed us that she’s met her husband in Mexico and married him less than two weeks later, which was probably devastating to her boyfriend of seven years back in Toronto. On top of telling me an interesting story, she also showed me a shark’s head and watched my stuff while I tried to drown myself snorkeling.

That’s what the sign said, and it was true, Although every meal we ate was infinitely better and cheaper than anything you could get in the states, our favorite restaurant had to be Pablo’s. It wasn’t just the giant burgers, but Pablo himself, an animated 60-ish surf bum from San Diego to entertain you that did it. Pablo introduced us to trits, the most wonderful thing ever. A trit is like our crappy ice cream sandwiches, only with good cookies that stay crispy and ice cream that stays soft. After Chris and Kate left with the car, Pablo’s was our only option because it was sort-of within walking distance. On our last night we were sitting at the restaurant’s long wooden bar waiting for food when I noticed the people next to me were talking about Vermont. Then I noticed that I actually knew one of them. Amazing. I guess that Costa Rica is the cool place to go if you’re from Vermont.